


Let Me Take You Down

by waywardrenegade



Series: See Where We Land [3]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Rare Pairings, game 6 & 7 of WCF 2014, goalie love, very minor implied D/s, well it's basically h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-14
Updated: 2014-06-14
Packaged: 2018-02-04 16:11:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1785259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrenegade/pseuds/waywardrenegade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Corey lets himself melt into the kiss, into Marc, because he needs this, the reassurance that he’s done well, every once in a while. It’s been entirely too long since he’s gotten this with Marc, the chance to breathe and unwind, and now that’s he’s got it, he’s not giving it up for anything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Me Take You Down

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kindofdanceit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kindofdanceit/gifts).



> Okay, this pairing apparently just wants me to write them cheering each other up after traumatic losses, so I shall oblige. 
> 
> The title comes from Chris Brown's "Take You Down" because I have questionable taste in music sometimes. (The Google Docs working title was "Let's Play a Game Called 'Marc Does Everything for Corey That Lauren Wants to Because He's a Perfect Boyfriend'", and that's basically a Fall Out Boy song.)
> 
> Shout out to kindofdanceit for being the best sounding board/cheerleader/friend basically ever. <3

They do it. They pull off another win, forcing a game 7, and re-birthing their Stanley Cup dream. Corey was honestly shaking (not that he’d admit it to anyone) for the last twenty seconds of the period, so afraid he was going to give up a shitty rebound and they’d be left battling it out in yet another OT. Turns out he shouldn't doubt himself nearly as often, or as much, as he’s rather prone to do. His teammates have told him countless times that he’s so much better than he gives himself credit for, but he still has trouble believing it sometimes.

It’s a chaotic blur, everything from Kaner’s rallying goal to being enveloped by his team, Jonny’s shouted, “Way to fucking go, boys!” ringing in his ears. His skin feels electric, his entire body buzzing with pure adrenaline at this point. He knows the bone deep exhaustion will set in soon, but for now, he can’t stop himself from thinking about what it’d be like to hoist the Cup in front of all of Chicago again.

It seems like a monumentally long time later that he’s able to board the bus to the airport. His hair is still a bit damp and curling around his ears, and the calm of the atmosphere outside of Staples washing over him like a wave. He feels settled in a way he hadn't at all during the game, but there’s still a part of him that feels adrift, like it’s just a bit too far from reach despite his best efforts.

Corey has to wait for the rest of the team to finish their pressers so they can head back to Chicago; he’s just a bit too keyed up to stay seated and wait, so he finds himself wandering around aimlessly when his phone rings. He laughs, full-bodied and open, when he realizes what Marc’s done: changed his ringtone to his infamous rally speech from last summer.

“Hi, babe,” he chuckles, unable to keep the amusement from bleeding through. He pushes his free hand through his hair, relaxing unconsciously as he listens to Flower’s rapid fire French. He catches “wanna kiss all over your stupid face because you’re so fucking wonderful” and “you did really well, cher”, both of which make him grin because it’s just so Marc.

“I wish you were here,” Corey manages to say between streams of Marc’s praise, throat constricting painfully as the full force of missing Marc really comes crashing into him. 

“Soon,” Marc promises quietly, “We can fall asleep together, and in the morning, we can ruin your diet plan with muffins with too much butter.” Corey knows Marc’s smiling as he says it, eyes crinkled at the corners and shining bright. It makes him ache with a longing the likes of which he’s rarely felt before.

“No such thing as too much butter, but, yeah, I’d like that a lot. Hey, the guys are filtering out now, so I’d better go. Love you,” Corey says reluctantly, not wanting to say goodbye just yet. He’d rather listen to Marc’s voice on the way to the airport instead of his iPod if he’s telling the truth.

“Get some sleep, handsome. Love you too,” comes Marc’s reply before he disconnects. 

It takes Corey a minute to realize the calmness he now feels is directly related to talking to Marc, no matter how briefly. It still startles him sometimes how receptive he is to Marc’s affections, spooks him to think how easily he could lose that and be left reeling. He catches Saader’s questioning gaze, likely sensing something’s up, so he shakes his head almost violently to dispel the negative thoughts and offers up the weak explanation of tiredness to appease him.

He falls into a deep, dreamless sleep on the plane to Chicago, sheer exhaustion finally catching up to him and weighing him down like an anchor. Corey comes to, courtesy of Duncs shaking his shoulder insistently and telling him to get his ass up. The plane’s empty, the rest of the guys dispersed, so he figures he’d been out for a while.

It’s probably for the best that Duncs insists on driving him to his place, Seabs following them to drive Duncs back to his own car. Corey’s suddenly so drowsy that he sincerely doubts he’d make it without smashing his car into a pole or something dumb. His head lolls against the headrest as he half listens to the top 40 country station Duncs picked, eternally grateful that Duncs isn't one for idle chatter. 

A short while later, Corey finds himself slung between Duncs and Seabs after they wrangle him out of the passenger’s seat, arms draped around their shoulders as they drag him along. It’s a solid plan until Brent tries to shift Corey so he can unlock the door and manages to drop the keys down the stairs just out of reach if he wants to keep Corey upright.

“Fucking really?” Seabs swears angrily, just as Corey’s front door swings open revealing Flower standing there laughing at them. He’d probably heard the commotion and went to investigate, figuring it was Corey, but he obviously didn't expect the tangle of limbs and well dressed hockey players he’d found instead.

Marc’s wearing flannel pajama pants and one of Corey’s threadbare Icehogs shirts, barefoot and hair poking up at bizarre angles. It’s a fairly damning predicament: a rival goaltender standing in his doorway, wearing his clothes, and looking entirely too at home to claim he’s only visiting since his season’s over. It’s more than Corey can process right now, so he waves a dismissive hand at his teammates, tells them he’s good now, and thanks for helping him home.

Clearly understanding he’s not going to say anything more, not like he should really have to given the their own strange relationship, they take turns bro hugging and telling him how great he was yet again. 

Corey watches their retreating forms until they get in Brent’s obnoxious SUV and the taillights disappear around the corner before he turns to Marc. “You’re here? Since when?” he asks in a rush, a little sleep dumb still. His fingers are twisted in his suit pants, probably creasing the ever-living fuck out of them, but he really couldn't care less right now, or ever for that matter.

“I flew in yesterday, wanted to be here when you got home. Wasn't sure if we’d be celebrating or if I’d have to try to stop you from replaying every moment in your head as you tried to figure out where you fucked up though. I’m glad it’s the first one. Now, get in here,” Marc says as he hauls Corey inside by his lapels, shuts the door with a loud thud, and pushes into Corey’s space in what seems like a split second.

Corey lets himself melt into the kiss, into Marc, because he needs this, the reassurance that he’s done well, every once in a while. It’s been entirely too long since he’s gotten this with Marc, the chance to breathe and unwind, and now that’s he’s got it, he’s not giving it up for anything.

Marc must realize how worn out he is though because he finds himself being herded into his bedroom, Marc’s nimble fingers making quick work of post-game suit, leaving him in just his underwear and a dopey smile. 

“You want pajamas, yeah?” Marc questions softly, already opening the drawer where Corey keeps them, but he pauses when Corey mumbles, “I’m good. Let’s just sleep, please.” Marc’s never been one to refuse Corey’s requests, so he pads back over to the bed and flips the lamp off as Corey nuzzles into him.

“You smell good. Missed this. Missed you,” Corey says into Marc’s neck, pressing tiny, feather-light kisses to warm skin between his words. His leg is draped over Marc’s calves, and their hands are resting next to each other waiting for one of them to make the move to interlock their fingers.

Marc just brushes his lips against Corey’s bicep and pushes his overgrown hair back from his forehead as he murmurs, “Sleep, babe. Bought us big ass muffins for breakfast.”

When the Hawks lose in game 7 OT (a shitty deflection goal off Leddy, no less), Marc watches Corey’s face shutter. He recognizes the way Corey hunches in on himself in a vague attempt to draw the critics’ eyes away, to protect himself from the impending shitstorm. He knows all too well the thoughts pinging around Corey's mind like racquetballs, the inevitable “they would've made it if not for me” and “I let them down...again.” 

Marc desperately wishes he could meet him in the tunnel, throw caution to the wind and just shove him into a wall, take him down and build him back up like he suspects Corey needs, but he’d promised to watch the game on TV because Corey was too afraid of fucking up in front of him. 

Marc doesn't have to wonder who it is that comes barging through the door an hour and some later, the wood slamming roughly into the drywall behind, leaving a mark of frustration. Marc had thought about staying seated on the plush living room couch and letting Corey come to him, but they’re alike in many ways, and Marc knows he’d never admit he needs help either. Instead, he meets Corey in the kitchen and grabs his gear bag, tossing it unceremoniously to the floor.

“Stop. It’s over, babe,” Marc rasps out, voice gruffer than usual because he knows it’s what Corey needs right now. He doesn't give him a chance to speak the words so clearly poised and ready to spring from his lips, much more in favor of crowding Corey against the cabinets and biting at his ridiculous lips.

Corey’s still for a long while, leaving Marc to wonder if maybe he’d misjudged the situation horribly, but then Corey’s hands are grasping roughly at Marc’s hair, dragging him impossibly closer. His breathing is shallow and sounds like it’s being punched out of him, but when he pulls back after a few minutes, Marc sees the wild look in his eyes has tamed some. 

“You know I’m going to beat myself up over this for the foreseeable future, but tonight I want to forget. Help me, Marc?” he says in a hushed voice, like if he speaks too loudly his request will blow up right in his face. He won't meet Marc’s eyes until he’s finished.

Marc, for all that he is, is still weak for Corey, and him asking for help, admitting his shortcomings in the face of his own stubbornness is no exception. “Yeah, babe, of course. Let’s go,” Marc tells him steadily, pulling Corey down the hall by his tie, pausing only to nip at the thin skin of his throat.


End file.
